


what happens in DC

by elyndis



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elyndis/pseuds/elyndis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens in DC stays in DC. [advent fic]</p>
            </blockquote>





	what happens in DC

Ben’s been feeling off all week, ever since he tried to talk to Jen about the interns and she’d shut him down with a metaphorical wave of her hand. He’s spent an inordinate amount of time since trying to suck up to the entitled, incompetent kids but he’s not sure it’s working.

Until 5pm on Friday when one of them invites him to a kickback with the other Capitol Hill interns.

He almost declines immediately, he’s too tired, just wants to go back to his hotel, sink onto the too-large bed and drift off to Captain Picard’s dulcet tones, but April’s shooting him a look and pulling him aside.

“What the hell? I thought you were trying to get them to like you.”

He wants to cite Leslie as an excuse, claim he has to skype with her, but then he remembers that she’s going out with Ann tonight, and with his excuse to stay in currently downing Pawnee Sunrises at the Snakehole, he caves.

 

xxx

 

He doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t this. Writhing bodies packed tight in the center of the room, FUN blasting through the surround sound system. Small groups gathered along the walls, the nieces and nephews of DC’s best and brightest trading drunken stories and sloshing alcohol everywhere.

He sips from his Miller Lite, wandering the outskirts of the party. Some familiar faces wave at him in recognition, pat him on the back when he meanders too close to one of their clusters, but he is still effectively an outsider. Briefly he wishes Leslie or Chris were here; they’d know what to do, how to get theses self-absorbed kids to emerge from their bubbles for even a second.

He’s out of his element here. It’s not like he commands much respect (or attention) in the office, but that at least was neutral territory. Here in a hotel penthouse that someone’s rich and influential relative shelled out for, he feels old and tired.

He’s weighing his options, leaning toward sneaking out the door on his next pass around the room when one of his interns – Elliot? Ellis? – motions him over. He freezes, deer in headlights, human disaster mode fully activated, until April pokes her head out from within the group and drags him over, saying something about body shots, and he shakes his head at her, at the absurdity of it all.

But then she’s taunting him, all _don’t you want to prove to these dickholes that you’re not my dad_. She enunciates the last word, holds eye contact and her gaze is heated, rousing something inside him.

It’s a challenge, but there’s something else there – desire and contempt mixed together, for him or for herself he doesn't know.

Ben has never been good at reading people, and in this moment, with the dull throb of liquor buzzing through his veins, clouding his brain, he knows he doesn't stand a chance.

Her wrist is in his grasp before his foggy brain can catch up and he’s licking the web of skin between her thumb and forefinger, salting it without pretense before flicking his tongue over it. She tastes like sweat and body lotion and danger. 

If she’s surprised she doesn't show it, just arches one eyebrow and hands him a shot and a wedge of lime. He grimaces as the tequila blazes down his throat, sucks on the lime hard, trying not to think of other things he could be sucking on before the night is out.

When he forces his eyes back open (when did he close them?) she’s licking salt off the curve of Ellis’ neck and slamming back a shot, goading someone else into doing the same. The group has closed off, leaving Ben on the outskirts again, and she doesn't even look back at him, and he thinks that maybe that’s the worst of all.

The rest of the night is a blur, too many beers and a slippery slide into unconsciousness with ke$ha screaming about her gold trans am and April’s sardonic voice (real? imagined?) taunting him to lick her.

 

xxx

 

He wakes with stringy strands of his hair plastered to his forehead, blinks bleary eyes and scans the room from his vantage point on the ground, face mashed into the carpet. The hotel room is quiet, empty Solo cups and shot glasses littering the carpet.

Nimble fingers slide into his back pants pocket, grope his ass and he shifts in alarm, muscles protesting vehemently, to find April inches away from him.

“April?” he manages to croak out, voice hoarse from dehydration and bad decisions. His eyes dart between her sleep-creased face and her cold fingers, still securely tucked into his butt pocket.

“Eww, no.” She retracts her hand like it’s been bitten. “Gross, Ben. I’m married.”

He searches for a response to that, finds nothing but static in his brain, and she just rolls her eyes at him, produces his wallet out of nowhere.

“I was trying to steal your wallet so I could get a cab and get the hell out of here.”

“Oh.”

She pushes off him and offers him a hand, which he takes. She’s remarkably stable on her feet for someone who downed at least a dozen shots last night.

He’s not doing so well himself. His head is pounding and his limbs protest on every exhale. His hair is sticky with some unknown substance that doesn't feel like hair gel, and his favorite plaid shirt reeks of alcohol and regret.

He puts her in a cab. His hotel is close enough so he foregoes one in favor of walking. Plus, he’s not sure he’s capable of human interaction at the moment.

He thumbs his mercifully still-working phone to see a missed text from Leslie, sent the previous night at 2am. She’s crashing at Ann’s, will call in the morning. There’s something about how they named another drink after her, something to do with waffles; either that or her phone’s autocorrect is being overzealous again. He squints through her drunken typos; she misspells the majority of words but still manages to type out “I love you” in near perfect Dothraki.

Ben smiles and taps the screen to reply as he ambles toward his hotel.


End file.
